


P.S.

by themantlingdark



Series: Bridges [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: didn't have time to add the visuals.please don't comment or repost.





	P.S.

At six o’clock on Wednesday morning, Thor kissed a very groggy Loki goodbye--on the lips, cheeks, forehead, chin, and the pads of every toe--and went out into the overdue spring rain.

It was always easier to think when the weather was wet. Storms muffled earth and sky alike, quieted the birds, kept the dogs from barking, and left the mind to its own devices. Taking a shower had the same effect, though thinking too much in the shower often led to washing your hair three times in a row and then forgetting to use conditioner.

Sunday night had been a shock, and Thor hadn’t learned what set it off until Tuesday morning, which had been an even deeper blow, despite its ultimately working out as well as anyone could hope.

There had been a mutual blindness between them. A misunderstanding of what was most essential to each of them. It had been disturbing to discover that they had remained opaque and mistaken at such close proximity and in spite of almost daily contact.

It was tempting to think that they were now on the same page, but having been burned so recently by that line of thinking, Thor resisted. Faith was too dangerous. Loki had little of it, which was probably a wise thing in this world on the whole, but not in this circumstance. Still, Thor didn’t want to overcompensate by having too much. It would be safest to assume the worst and take the steps necessary to avoid it.

Loki could love Thor without constantly texting or writing or calling, but could not, at least at present, believe that the reverse held true. Which was fine. Thor seemed to have been wired for comfort and confidence while Loki had landed on unsettled and insecure. But they both wanted the same things, and those things were attainable. Their achievement simply demanded different means to suit different minds. Loki would require evidence, assurances, and reassurances. Thor only needed Loki to be breathing. But, for Loki’s sake, Thor would demand answers and demonstrations. Proofs and coordinates. And would provide them in turn, even-steven.

But how did one go about banishing holes in confidence? Dispatching disbelief?

It seemed to Thor that it would require a certain relentlessness.

Loki’s doubt of love likely had deep roots, beginning back when Thor was always away, if not earlier. And Loki had almost certainly accumulated deep stores of loneliness throughout a decade spent in the fleeting company of strangers.

There was instability now, but aiming, perhaps, for stability. Maybe this was the first hour, when the foal had to get up on legs that had been curled in sleep throughout gestation. The sinews would need to stretch before the joints could straighten. The muscles would tire easily from long disuse. But, sooner than anyone would ever imagine, there would be a graceful sprinting thing with its proud head thrown back and its tail streaming.

It would take practice. Repetition. Accumulation. Documentation.

Defeating doubt and loneliness would require a strong assault and, afterward, equally intense fortifications.

It would be especially difficult because the bulk of the time for which the siblings were awake in five out of every seven days was spent apart. The only opportunity to meet Loki face to face, outside of Mondays and Tuesdays, was from a quarter past eight until roughly midnight each evening. Not enough time. So Thor would have to employ weapons with long reach.

Thor pictured the First Formation from Roman infantry tactics. The one with its strength concentrated in two wings that stood abreast a center and in front of reserves that could clean up anything that flanked or broke through.

If it was proof that Loki required, then strength would be found in formats that were precise, concrete, and lasting. Loki had been right. There hadn’t been as many letters in the weeks leading up to their breakdown. And writing was, by far, the easiest way to say the hardest things. Letters could also be kept. Revisited. Touched. Even smelled. Letters, notes, postcards, and presents would compose the right wing and deal the heaviest blows.

Texts would compose the left wing. They were fast and could come in flurries. No need to wait for a big block of free time in which to sit down and write. No need to hide anything from other ears or eyes. Each side of a conversation could be screencapped and kept. Photos could be sent so that sights could be shared. And texts lent themselves to silliness and affection, with strings of jokes and cartoonish chains of emoji, which meant they’d make a good foil for the graver letters.

Talking on the phone would occupy the center. Weaker, in that phone calls were ephemeral, but intimate at any range. Calls would allow them to hear each other’s voices. Sarcasm would come through clearly, where in texts and letters it could be easy to misconstrue. They could share things as they happened. Keep each other company while they were apart running errands or waiting in lines.

That left everything physical in the reserves. Seeing each other. Talking. Touching. Sharing meals. Sleeping. None of it able to be kept, but all of it able to be kept up, again and again, day after day. All distance erased. Smiles and kisses exchanged. And probably tears and shouting, but those had their uses too.

Thor sighed and started making breakfast.

No, not quite.

It wasn’t battle that was wanted.

There was no part of Loki that Thor wanted to erase or defeat. No weapons or assaults were welcome here. No destruction or endings. Only building and mending. Gaps ready for filling. Soil awaiting replenishing. Seedlings in need of sun and water. Whatever happened between them had to be soft and organic or else it would shatter when things got stormy.

So it’ll be a kind of gardening, then, Thor realized, and smiled, thinking, Good: I’ve got green thumbs.

Loki’s thumbs were green as well. They were both earthy people. Thor thought that was fitting: an air sign and a water sign would have to meet in the middle.

Two islands. Their bodies would be the base for everything they built. They had to be, really: their bodies were all either of them ultimately had, and grey matter was no exception to flesh. They both liked sex. Loki, possibly as a means of getting lost; Thor as a means of finding and being found. But, if yesterday was any indication, they were able to meet in some sort of middle there too. Loki had been almost stubbornly present. A difficult thing to manage during sex. It was often irresistible to hide behind the eyelids, but Loki had held off that urge. Perhaps out of some hunger. The one confessed in the letter.

Islands could be joined in three ways that Thor could think of: bridges, mangroves, and volcanic eruptions. Thor supposed this would be a combination of the three. Sex would be the temporary solution akin to a drawbridge, raised and lowered at will. The more lasting exchange would be of ideas, each of them calling up their liquid inner realms, pouring them into molds made of colors and words, and handing them across the gap. Fed by each other’s thoughts, the siblings would broaden until their shoulders were butted up against each other. And then the mangrove seeds would drift by and stick, sending down networks of roots and trapping soil between their toes. Every new thing the siblings saw and did together would be layered on top of who they’d been before, embellishing them with more earth, catching new seeds, and sprouting fresh greenery. Books would be read, swapped, raved and ranted about. Concerts and movies would be seen. Hikes and camping trips taken. Meals shared. Quiet evenings spent sleeping in the same S curve.

All of it would, ideally, lead to increasingly overlapping lives. To the weaving of a single tapestry that was wide enough to wrap up both of them. To orbital resonance. To roads converging.

Assuming they didn’t lose track of each other again, which was easier to do than Thor ever would have imagined.

Last Sunday night, Thor had been busier than usual: grocery shopping on the way home for a few unusual ingredients for dinner; mowing the lawn for the first time that year, as the warm spring had sent the grass shooting up quickly; cleaning the house; changing the sheets; showering; dressing, undressing, and re-dressing, then doing a more careful blow-dry than usual; cooking dinner; trying to decide if they should eat said dinner at the counter or the dining table or if they should have a picnic of sorts, and, if it was picnic, Thor wondered whether it should be in the living room or the solarium, as the food would go cold quickly in the garden.

In the extra ninety minutes they’d spent apart, Loki had written the letter and left for the bars.

Now Thor suspected that, to Loki, anything short of everything was nothing. And, to some degree, Thor could relate: you didn’t go into a competition hoping for silver or bronze. But you also didn’t skip the game altogether, as that guaranteed the loss.

The hopelessness that formed the framework for Loki’s recklessness was showing now, like ribs on deer after a hard winter. The belief that there was not only nothing to lose, but nothing to gain. That to try was to make yourself fate’s fool. Loki had assumed that everything was impossible and, so, had pledged allegiance to nothing. It had been a logical assumption, really, in the circumstances. The odds of your sibling being in love with you were quite low. Thor was accustomed to beating the odds: the likelihood of winning an Olympic gold medal was abysmal and Thor had already done that twelve times. Loki was still living in that shitty little world where the house always won. Time to move out, let go of roofs, and start living under open sky.

Thor usually took a break around nine am, and Loki was most often awake--if not actually out of bed--by then.

Miss you already, sleepyhead, Thor texted. The ground thawed a week ago. What would you like to put in the garden?

The nearest garden center closed at nine pm, and Loki wouldn’t be able to make it to Thor’s until a quarter after eight, at which point it would be more pleasant to sit down to dinner than to run an errand.

Thor got off work at four and headed straight to the store to pick up the requested items for Loki’s planting. Peas, lettuce, rosemary, thyme, mint, basil, cowslip, chamomile, pansies, petunias, and geraniums. Soil and fertilizer. Seeds and peat pots for the cucumbers, cantaloupes, and watermelons that would have to be sprouted in the solarium and moved to the garden after all danger of frost passed. Thor added good gloves to the list, knowing Loki’s hands had to look nice for work.

Once home, Thor rushed around putting everything away, dashed off a letter, took a quick shower, and wondered what to do about dinner. It was impossible to even imagine calmly sitting straight down to eat after spending fourteen hours apart. Most likely a hot meal would go cold. Thor made a salad, put it in the fridge to chill, and wound up on the couch with both hands down the back of Loki’s jeans and a mouthful of smooth warm throat.

When their stomachs started growling in unison, they sighed out curses and shuffled off to eat. Loki finished first, then reached across the table to pluck chickpeas and mint leaves from Thor’s salad until it was gone too. Thor just watched, entranced, as long tapered fingers that were tipped with the glisten of olive oil slowly painted the same shine onto thin red lips.

After ice cream, they opened the back door and stood on the threshold, listening to the rain that was still falling, breathing in the thick scent of wet earth and rooftops, and fiddling with each other’s fingers, shyly playing their way into holding hands.

“I haven’t done this since I was seventeen,” Loki said, staring out across the dark yard at the rectangular shadow on the wall that meant the garden door. “Gone on a second…”

“Date,” Thor finished quietly, gently catching the word that had been left hanging in the air.

Loki blinked and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“It’s been eleven years.”

“Well, you haven’t lost a step,” Thor smiled, and pumped Loki’s hand.

“It was so much simpler then… and it still fell apart,” Loki murmured, head shaking slowly from side to side. Black curls continued to sway after Loki’s face went still. “I don’t know how this works. Especially with our being...” Loki trailed off at a whisper and turned two wide green eyes on Thor.

“You don’t have to know,” Thor soothed. “And anyway everything falls apart when you’re seventeen. Thank heaven. Imagine being trapped in the life chosen by a teenager.”

“Gross,” Loki shuddered. “The hair alone would be unbearable.”

They traded smiles and Thor lifted their linked hands out the doorway into the rainy night air. The water cooled the blood in their wrists and slowed their hearts just slightly. Loki leaned forward past the threshold and peered from side to side. Thor could see the sharp profile from each side, hidden at the turn behind a mass of black curls, like the new moon. Raindrops got caught in the ringlets and glittered like stars, catching the light from the Christmas tree and shining it back into the room.

“But what do we say to the neighbors if they ever-” Loki’s voice thickened until it stopped.

“Worst case scenario, we move to Paris.”

“What?”

“Or anywhere in France. Napoleon nixed the law that pertained to our situation.”

Loki gaped a moment, then squinted.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Thor chirped. “Think of the boulangeries.”

"That’s your worst case scenario?”

“Yep,” Thor nodded. “Or Belgium or Spain. But I doubt we’ll have to take it that far. Meanwhile, on the off chance anyone asks about all the sleeping over, we can just say we’ve been up late drinking and don’t want to drive. I can’t imagine anyone would doubt us there.”

“I always knew our combined decade of alcohol abuse would come in handy,” Loki sighed. “And if they do ask more than that?”

“Waggle your eyebrows and ask if they want to watch.”

“Thor.”

Thor smiled and squeezed Loki’s hand again.

“Don’t offer any information,” Thor sighed. “Make them say it. Just stare while they squirm. Look at them like they’ve got shit on their face. Really, though, I doubt anyone will notice. They can’t tear their eyes away from cell phones screens and season seventy-eight of Supernatural, or whatever the fuck people are watching these days.”

They listened to the sizzling wall of rain. Thousands of drops landing every split second, tapping grass, stones, shingles, and concrete. Somehow the wall of water felt safer than one of stone or wood. Larger. Older. Longer lasting.  

“So you’ve thought about it all,” Loki said quietly.

“Yes,” Thor said, warm, slow, and teasing, because the question was absurd.

“You don’t seem worried.”

“Worrying about what might happen is the flipside of crying over spilt milk,” Thor shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, but what’s out of our hands isn’t worth thinking about.”

Thor made hot chocolate in the hope that, at the very least, Loki’s taste buds could be soothed. Fat marshmallows floated in the mugs and slowly went smooth with the sloshing of cocoa. As they drank, the candy painted their upper lips with fluffy white mustaches.

“Is this for me?” Loki asked, seeing a letter on the counter pinned under a green crystal.

“Yes.”

“May I have it now?”

“Sure,” Thor said, and Loki carefully raised the stone to take the envelope.

“Fluorite?”

“Yep.”

“Good choice for a paper weight, actually,” Loki smiled.

“I thought so too.”

“I’m always afraid one of our letters will get lost in the mail and it’ll all end up like Immortal Beloved,” Loki admitted.

“Oh god,” Thor groaned.  

“Maybe we could do it like this,” Loki murmured, stroking the smooth facets of the fluorite. “Deliver them by hand.”

“That would probably wise,” Thor nodded. “We wouldn’t have to censor the postcards or worry about the cancellations screwing up our drawings.”

Loki hummed, tore into the envelope, and was grinning in short order.

**Dear Loki,**

**I’m sorry we got so far out of sync. I never meant to hurt you or hold you at arm’s length. Everything felt so comfortable on my side I made the assumption it was mutual. It’s so easy to forget how opaque the mind is and how many interpretations every word and action can have. I’ll try to be more transparent/precise/specific/explicit/lewd in the future.**

**Yours any way you want me,**

**Thor**

“Can you stay tonight?” Thor asked later, the words half muffled by Loki’s neck.

They were stretched out on the sofa again, struggling to remain awake amid the the warmth of tangled limbs and the lulling drum of rain.

“Mmmhmm,” Loki nodded, then whined. “God, I can’t believe I’m going to get up at the crack of dawn for you.”

“You don’t have to wake up that early,” Thor said. “Just get up ten minutes before you normally do so you can head home.”

When they got too warm, they went to the kitchen for glasses of cold water.

“Here,” Thor said, and looped the spare house key onto Loki’s keyring. “Just lock up on your way out tomorrow.”

For the rest of the evening, Loki’s face wore a stubborn smile and a flush that turned the cheeks into perfect apples. The expression lingered on even after Loki had fallen asleep, and Thor again suspected that Loki would best be reassured by things that could be kept and seen.

After supper on Sunday night, Thor led Loki upstairs.

“Can you silence your phone for an hour or two?” Thor asked.

“Sure,” Loki said, and turned it off entirely.

Thor undressed, so Loki followed suit and then followed Thor into the bathroom.

Thor grabbed a book of matches from the counter and stepped into the shower.

“Mind the circle,” Thor said, and Loki made sure not to smear the little line of table salt that ran in an unbroken ring around the inner edge of the shower.

“Your circle is a little wonky,” Loki noted, and Thor smiled.

“I decided to go with an egg so we’d have more room.”

“That might be even better,” Loki mused.

Inside the northernmost curve of Thor’s egg was a small dish of pink sea salt, standing in for earth. To the east, air was a stick of sage incense planted upright in a small flower pot full of pebbles. To the south, fire was represented by a plain white candle that was fat enough to stand up on its own. And to the west was a wooden teacup filled with water.

“I thought a clean slate might feel good after last weekend,” Thor said gently, and Loki nodded rapidly. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Thor lit the incense and the candle, set the smoldering spent matches on the stone bench, and chucked the matchbook over the shower wall.

They stood still, silently breathing for several minutes as they lined up all the thoughts they needed to be rid of. The tired, bitter things that served no purpose. Then they took a step to the north and scooped salt from the dish with their fingertips, scrubbing the coarse grains between their hands until the grains crumbled, brushing the dust off on their chests and letting it fall down their fronts onto their feet. Next they faced east and reached for the pale wisps of perfumed smoke that floated up from the incense. It flowed up between their fingers and spun in drafts of air before dispersing. They scooped and fanned the puffs toward their faces to breathe them in in deep, slow pulls. When their hair was heavy with the scent of sage they turned south and passed their hands through the candle flame again and again. Slowly enough to feel its heat, but quickly enough to keep from burning. They finished facing the west, where they dipped their fingers into the water and then flicked it at each other, grinning and spinning in slow circles to make sure they were both evenly covered in droplets before taking what was left in the cup and painting it onto each other’s lips, eyelids, ears, and noses.

“Shower?” Thor asked, and Loki hummed and nodded.

They bathed lazily, drifting off while they lathered their hair, sometimes humming bits of songs that were stuck in their heads, standing still beneath the spray to soak up the soothing heat of the water.

When the egg-ring of salt had all been washed away, they declared themselves clean and dripped their way out into the bathroom to pat themselves dry.

Loki’s backside was blushing a deep coral from the warmth of the water. Thor couldn’t keep from petting, squeezing, and cupping it.

“Should I invest in assless chaps?” Loki asked.

“Assless everything,” Thor answered, still softly squeezing the rosy cheeks.

Thor stuck a diffuser on the end of the blowdryer and made for Loki’s curls. Loki’s nose wrinkled.

“You’ll see,” was all Thor said, and a mock-defeated sigh was the only response.

When their hair was dry, Thor loaned Loki socks, slippers, pajamas, and a hat--which elicited raised eyebrows, then took Loki out to the garden, leading the way with a bouncing flashlight beam and then shutting the door behind them. An air mattress was sitting on the small patch of grass in the center of the flower beds. It was covered in quilts and pillows. The cord of an electric blanket hung from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the grass like a tail. Thor plugged it into an outlet in the brick wall, then climbed under the covers and held them up until Loki had settled beneath them too.

The night was clear and the year was young enough that the mosquitoes were still asleep. The garden walls kept the wind away and blocked the light from other houses and street lamps. The dark brick framed an indigo square of sky that was speckled with stars. The constellations were more visible from this spot than they were at any other point in the neighborhood.

“Warm enough?” Thor asked, and heard a hummed affirmative buzz through Loki’s lips.

When the moon rose over the east wall, Loki made a soft, pleased sound, stared for a moment, then snorted.

“Like crystals,” Loki giggled, and Thor shook with silent belly-laughter at having been caught.

“Yep.”

“I can’t believe you,” Loki wheezed, bouncing. “Charging me up, eh? Did I seem depleted?”

“Us,” Thor corrected, and nudged Loki’s hip. “And, yes, we both did.”

“Am I correct in assuming we’ll be spending tomorrow out in the sun.”

“Gardening, if the weather holds,” Thor confirmed, nodding.

Loki gave an amused but approving grunt, then nudged Thor’s arm up and scooted over to sleep in the crook against Thor’s side.

In the dark, the world was brighter when seen in the peripheral vision than it was from straight on. Loki’s face showed clearly at the corner of Thor’s eye. The high forehead and sharp cheeks were glowing. Without makeup, the flesh possessed that liquid, iridescent depth most often seen in nacre. Thor wondered if that was why people never looked good in pearls--or why pearls never looked good on people: skin was so similarly luminous that the jewel’s effect was diluted and drowned out. Now Loki rivaled the moon, reflecting its light just as it reflected the rays of the sun. The path of the light seemed to put Loki in three places at once.

In the morning, the square of sky above the garden was a hazy lilac color. Spring was unmistakable despite the sleeping lilies and lingering dead leaves. The breeze carried warmth. The robins had come back. They began their songs at four in the morning. The other birds chimed in at dawn.

The high whistle of a cardinal woke Loki. Thor watched as two puffy green eyes blinked up at the slowly brightening sky.

Their bodies were both limp but well rested beneath the covers, warm from each other and the electric blanket. Thor rolled over to curl against Loki’s right side and stare at the pale, sharp profile that was just inches away. Thor rubbed Loki’s belly and saw the red lips curl. Stroked the insides of Loki’s thighs through flannel pajamas and saw Loki’s lashes flutter as the mind told them to resist the urge to close. Slipped a hand under the waistband and felt hips rise up to meet long fingers as Loki’s mouth fell open to let in more air.

Afterward, Thor’s fingers stayed, warm and sticky, right where they had been when Loki gasped and bucked. Loki’s head slowly fell to the side until the siblings were nose to nose. Loki's eyelids were no longer puffy. The irises had been brightened by the growing light and the reddened cheeks below. The pupils were trained on Thor. Unapologetic and unashamed of staring.

Thor stared back at the pale face, nestled in its black frame of curls that had gone riotous overnight. Still the moon, always there, even in sunlight.

Eventually their eyes dropped to each other’s lips. The weight of the gaze seemed to pull their mouths into kisses that were primarily a means of clasping. It was the mind’s nearest means of gripping something. Thor wondered if that was why kisses seemed to have the greatest sense of immediacy. Holding hands and hugging were done as quickly and easily--more easily, as often as not--but they couldn’t quite compare. Perhaps the minimal surface area was part of it. Fewer distractions. No need to worry about the rest of the body or the innumerable neurons spread through every fingertip. Just the lips. Still rich with nerve endings, but linked by skin and devoid of bone. A border. Doorway. Permeable. Almost a non-place. A gap left to let things out and in.

“Where do you go in that pretty blond head?” Loki asked, and lightly knocked their skulls together just as Thor began to say “What’s on your mind?”

They laughed and made lazy, meandering confessions, then slept until the calls of the bathroom and the breakfast table grew too strong to ignore.

 

 

Thor could remember looking up at the clock on the classroom wall in third grade, shocked at every turn by how little time had passed. The days had stretched on forever. When, exactly, that ceased to be the case, Thor couldn’t say. Now Thor looked at clocks hoping they hadn’t moved a tick and was always disappointed. Time seemed to speed up whenever Loki was around. But nothing could be done about that end of things--every minute they could spare was already spent together. So Thor had to fit more of Loki into the hours they spent apart.

Thor began to run a week’s worth of errands on Wednesdays before Loki got off work and would then make a week’s worth of meals on Thursday evenings. The second story of the carriage house was turned into a small studio. Painters were hired to cover the dark wooden walls and ceiling in crisp satin white. Thor filled the space with with lamps and a large table. It was as bright as the summer solstice inside and there was enough space to work on more than one piece of mail at a time, which made things more efficient. Thor cut out dozens of cards at once and put a base coat of paint on most of them. In the hours after work that were no longer spent cooking, Thor could fill in the pictures and words.

And still time seemed like sand, slipping through Thor’s fingers. And the mind felt like a sieve--so much of what went into it slid out again, swiftly and permanently.

Thor remembered Jack London’s advice: “Keep a notebook. Travel with it, eat with it, sleep with it. Slap into it every stray thought that flutters up in your brain. Cheap paper is less perishable than gray matter, and lead pencil markings endure longer than memory.”

So Thor’s sketchbook expanded into journal and diary. An archive of their lives, with notes on what they’d said and done, and when, and copies of the letters Thor had written saved alongside the original replies received from Loki, so that both halves of their conversations could be kept and followed.

Loki found Thor’s journal on a tour of the carriage house studio and had no qualms about opening it up and reading it. Within two pages, Loki picked up a pencil and started augmenting the entries, filling in the hours and thoughts that Thor hadn’t seen.

Loki also discovered--and commandeered--Thor’s pre-cut postcards. Having never painted with gouache before, Loki set about exploring the chalky new medium.

Thor sighed and decided to revert to collage.

**Dear Thor,**

**I’m still afraid I've damaged you with our stupid misunderstanding. Messing up has made everything a little nerve-racking. I'm worried I'll fuck up when it comes to trust and end up taking you for granted inadvertently.**

**XOXO,**

**Lo**

**Dear Loki,**

**You haven't damaged me, you've just pointed out my weaknesses. But I know what you mean. I have the same species of worry. A misunderstanding of that magnitude was disturbing given our proximity and history. I do want you to take me for granted in the sense that, on the whole, I’m a given. You can always tell or ask me anything and I will never cease to care for you.**

**Love,**

**Thor**

**Dear A. Given,**

**I’m also afraid I’ll lose interest. I tell myself not much is changing. I’ve always loved you. I can just keep doing it. Still, I’ve never done anything quite like this before, and what I have done hasn't lasted long. And a certain aspect of it is so... let's call it** **unique** **, there’s no one I can ask.**

**Yours,**

  1. **Taken**



**P.S. Have you ever seen a takin? They're goatish. I think you'd like them.**

**Dear Loki,**

**You really can--and should--ask me anything. And, whatever happens, it won’t be the end of the world. If I start to get boring or irritating, tell me, so I can try not to be so annoying and dull.**

**Saying yes to me doesn’t mean saying no to everyone else and to parts of yourself. And I agree--not much is changing. Sex is not the be-all and end-all. Most of what we're doing is in line with what we've done for the last three years. We're just doing it more frequently and with more open affection. Don't sell yourself short.**

**Kisses,**

**Thor**

**P.S. I looked up takins and now I want one a herd.**

**Dear Thor,**

**Sometimes I get angry that you don’t get jealous. How do you manage it?**

**Love,**

**Loki**

**Dear Loki,**

**It isn’t that I wouldn’t like to have you all to myself. Part of me is very greedy when it comes to you… but it’s an irrational part of myself, and I know better than to trust it. Being jealous--possessive--frightens me. It has, at its core, the belief that one human being owns another. It makes me sick to think I might cost you something. Might cage you in and keep you from what could bring you joy.**

**Yours,**

**Thor**

**Dear Thor,**

**Well… good. As long as I make you greedy.**

**XOXO**

**Loki**

Spring stormed in while the sun was in winter’s eyes. In mid May it already felt like summer, and Thor and Loki felt that they’d been shorted.

By June the heat by was suffocating. Stepping outside of the air conditioning meant sweat darkening your shirt and frizzy hair within a minute. All the windows had be shut up to keep the heat out. The whole city buzzed with the metallic hum of air conditioners and cicadas. Blinds were drawn to block the sun. The atmosphere indoors was stale, dry, and motionless. It felt like prison and the absence of a season.

Thor and Loki took to gardening in their bathing suits with the sprinklers on. Every time Thor stole a peek at Loki, Loki was soaked and smiling and speckled with mud, happily weeding and planting the annuals that had been grown from seeds in the solarium earlier that spring.

Loki’s slowly-increasing suntan was a color Thor didn’t have a word for and a phenomenon that hadn’t occurred since they were small children. It was a number of colors, really. Deeper and cooler on the tops of the arms. Lighter and warmer on the backs of the legs. A milky burnt sienna on the back that faded to some pale baseline Loki-color at the tops of the buttocks, which were usually trying to climb out of a wet bathing suit. Freckles were darkening, speckling the bridge of the nose, dotting the cheeks, and dappling the shoulders. Hair was lightening, showing flashes of red and gold around the crown, setting off the green in Loki’s irises.

Thor had stared at a pantone chart for over an hour one night, searching for Loki’s colors to no avail. Hair and skin allowed light to filter through them, so they glowed. There was no hope of flattening them into paint chips.

Earlier in the year, Thor had put sheets the shade of storm clouds on the bed, and Loki’s pale skin had shown starkly against them. Now Thor switched to white linens. The honey tones that the sun had awakened in Loki’s complexion seemed to deepen against the blank background. Thor liked to kiss every freckle and tanline nightly, to lay claim to the new colors.

**Dear Loki,**

**Isn’t it funny that the laws of physics and properties of matter resulted in things like love and chickadees and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?**

**Love,**

**Thor**

**Dear Thor,**

**I wonder if anyone else in the world has ever equated love, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and chickadees. Seeing them written out like this, their equivalence seems so obvious.**

**Dazzled,**

**Loki**

**P.S. I painted this before work when I had frosting, sprinkles, and doughnuts on the brain. Are they on par with chickadees?**

Thor's response to that particular postcard was a box of a dozen Krispy Kremes, fresh off the belt. They lasted two hours. The ensuing stomach aches lasted twice as long.

**Thor,**

**I’m always afraid that in having, wanting will be lost.**

**Yours,**

**Loki**

**Dear Loki,**

**Right, because once you have a glass of water, you never get thirsty again.**

**Trolololololove you,**

**Thor**

**P.S. Okay, sorry, that was mean.**

**I know the feeling. Tension has a lot of power. Desire is exciting. Potential is limitless, and that's thrilling. But it isn't sustainable or survivable, because it's another sort of stasis.** **Consistently** **not-having** **was what made you write and mail that letter just before you set off on your mission to drink all the vodka.**

 **We will change, and things will, therefore, inescapably change between us. They've always changed. We'd get bored if they didn't. Or it would mean we'd stopped growing, which sounds a lot like dying to me. But not everything will** **entirely** **change. For example, I've loved you ever since you were born, so that has stayed the same; it has also altered in the sense that I've loved you more with every passing day. I'm hopeful that, with effort, we can continue to change in seamless, harmonious, complementary ways wherever alteration is inescapable. XOXO**

**Dear Thor,**

**Sometimes I think the glass is neither half full nor half empty for either of us. For me, the glass is perforated; for you, it’s overflowing. Lately it feels like you’ve tipped toward me to pour your constant excess into my cup so we both end up at the brim.**

**Thank you,**

**Loki**

In August, Loki was baffled when a beloved pair of skinny black jeans dropped like a stone to Thor’s kitchen floor.

“Goddammit. I must have had the heat on the dryer set too high and fried the elastane,” Loki grumbled, tugging up the trousers and rolling the waistline over once to pin them in place.

“Nope,” Thor said, smiling and handing Loki another dish to dry.

“What do you mean nope, and what’s so funny?”

“It’s not the fabric, Lo, it’s you. You’ll have to get a belt. And smaller pants.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re shrinking.”

“No, I can’t be,” Loki said, scowling and running a towel around the base of a dinner plate. “I feel like foie gras, you feed me so much.”

“I feed you a lot of vegetables,” Thor said. “With mostly water to drink. Do you know how many calories are in a glass of red wine?”

“Isn’t it, like, fifty or something?” Loki shrugged, reaching for the next dish. Thor snorted.

“More like a hundred and twenty-five.”

“Well, fuck,” Loki laughed, and then vowed to eat enough chocolate and ice cream to make up the difference.

**Dear Thor,**

**Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes having sex with you feels like interrogation under sodium pentothal concurrent with vivisection. I expect that makes it sound as though I don’t enjoy it, which is not the case. I just wondered whether it was as intense for you too.**

**Much love,**

**Loki**

**Dear Loki,**

**Yeah, your sex description is accurate, and I’m doing it deliberately--and you're giving as good as you get. Part of it is that I’m a glutton when it comes to you. Part of it is that I want us to do the tricky/intense things now while life is relatively easy. I don’t want feet of clay. This way, if things ever do get difficult, we’ll know we can take it.**

**Love,**

**Thor**

In September they clipped seed heads to save for spring, picked all the pumpkins, and said goodbye to gardening season.

Cool weather descended and the neighborhood began to breathe again. Windows that had been shut up around air conditioning all summer finally opened to let the fall breeze course through their screens. At night the chill allowed cozy blankets to prove their worth while the warmth of the fleece and down made the cold air feel welcome against bare cheeks, each a soothing counterpoint.

The roses were still blooming as full and pink as June while bright red maple leaves slowly twirled down around them. Invisible flocks of sparrows fluttered up the color of dust at the sound of approaching feet. It looked like the earth itself was taking flight, ready to head south before winter arrived. The Boston ivy that had seemed weedy and stifling all summer was now a weightless spill of crimson down the brick garden walls. Mums, sedums, and marigolds took center stage in flower beds. Pools of sky were framed by bright yellow honey locust leaves at every pothole, turning puddles into portals that led to upside down worlds.

The farmers’ market stalls were at their fullest. Not with the fragile berries of early summer but with crisp apples, ruddy sweet potatoes, and dense gourds. Things that lasted through winter. Things that not only survived a roasting, but were improved by it.

Thor made soup with acorn squash, baked thick pies with crumbly dutch crusts, and assembled plates of pears and cheeses for impromptu picnics in the garden. The siblings sent paper airplanes drifting through the house bearing written messages on their wings, sailing wildly on the gusts that came in through the windows.

The harsh drone of the cicadas died away and unearthed the sounds that had been buried beneath it all summer: tree branches squeaking as they brushed against each other in the wind, the tiny voices of unseen songbirds, the strains of someone practicing violin several houses away. The calls of geese grew louder and faded again as the birds flew by high overhead. Dogs seemed to bark more loudly and frequently. Thor wondered whether it was because they could see farther with less foliage and thereby found more to shout about, or if it was just easier to hear them with all the windows open. The crickets chirped night and day, but calmly now that their limbs were slowing with the cold.

On a mild Sunday night that smelled of wet earth and wood smoke, Thor and Loki went out to see if anyone had begun to decorate for Halloween. Their own decorations were going up tomorrow, which made them want to know if they’d be first.

They hunted for strands of orange and purple lights in windows. Scanned front porches for cheesecloth ghosts, felt bats, and wire spiders. Searched for cobwebs draped over hedges and groupings of carved gourds in doorways. For plastic skeletons in flowerbeds and foam tombstones on front lawns.

They found a pair of pumpkins seated in ornate flower pots that flanked a driveway. Saw sunny bales of straw and tall corn stalks. Spotted two cheerful, yarn-haired scarecrows dressed in denim overalls. But those were more for autumn, not Halloween specifically. It appeared as though the neighborhood was waiting for October. With victory in reach, the siblings returned home to untangle strands of lights and to sketch designs that would be carved into pumpkins.

Thor had insisted on G-rated decor. Loki noted that Fantasia and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow were both rated G, which meant that winged demons, murderous decapitated ghosts, and naked harpies were all on the table. Thor’s compromise was that the carriage house could be PG as long as the scariest thing on the front porch was a jack-o’-lantern with pointy teeth; there was only so much a three-year-old could be expected to take, and Thor refused to be deprived of any trick-or-treaters.

When they finished hanging ghosts and stringing lights on Tuesday evening, the house was glowing more brightly than it had been at sunset.  

November felt like the turning of a page. Crows passed overhead in murders of six or seven, calling loudly as they went, speaking of barren fields and bones picked clean, seeming to shout beware. The storms that rolled in were larger and colder than those that swept through in October, and they lasted much longer, sometimes staying for days. The wind was no longer warm and forgiving. Now it reddened noses and cut through clothes. The colors in the clouds threatened snow.

Thor’s shopping trips began to include something warm for Loki with high frequency. Cashmere sweaters. Angora socks. Leather gloves. Silk scarves. Chunky cable knit blankets to drape over the tops of wingback chairs in case the bony body reading on the cushion beneath them grew cold.

“The weather is making you fret,” Loki said, when Thor stopped finger-combing black curls in order to fuss with a quilt, pulling it higher up Loki’s body and elaborately tucking it in. They were sitting lengthwise on the couch in front of the lit fireplace. Thor’s front was functioning as a seat-back for Loki, who had been reading aloud while seated between Thor's legs. “About losing me,” Loki continued. It was a known. Not a guess. Thor heard no trace of a question mark at the end of it. “Winter. Hypothermia fallout.”

“I know,” Thor sighed, gusting a warm breath against the nape of Loki’s neck. “Sorry. Can’t seem to shake it."

“It’s all right,” Loki soothed, sagging against Thor’s chest. “Just a little superfluous. I’m not going anywhere.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> didn't have time to add the visuals.
> 
> please don't comment or repost.


End file.
